Go softly into that good night
by Aria7
Summary: Do not go softly into that good night... Arcturus Black won't, he won't! He would watch his family rise again. Even if he has just watched his world finally die on that early morning in 1983. The downfall of the House of the Black is almost complete.


**Go softly into that good night**

He was Arcturus Black, son of Sirius Black, grandson of Phineas Nigellus Black, patriarch of the Black family and he'd just watched his world finally die.

He'd once been head of a large family -he'd once been dark haired- that although wasn't rich -they weren't landed gentry after all- were most certainly not short of income; his grandfather had seen to that. But then the Wars had come, both Muggle and Wizarding alike. He'd been enlisted once himself, had made it all the way to the trenches in fact before his grandfather discovered what he was up to and where he was; called him home in no uncertain terms. By then he had the start of trench foot and he'd tangled his leg in barbed wire stuck in the mud, so he would have been shipped home anyway.

The dressing down his grandfather had subjected him to in front of his father soon dispelled any notions he'd had as to whether he'd be permitted any leniency, adult or not; and he had been an adult, just. The fact that he was sixteen and under Wizarding law no longer a child did little to assuage his elders' anger. He was a Black and more importantly, both the eldest of his generation, and the eldest son of an eldest son. As a result he had a responsibility to his family to continue his education (especially since his grandfather was the Headmaster of 'the finest magical institution in the world'), and to become a gentleman; not to fight in some 'silly Muggle war'. He could still taste it sometimes, death in the air; mud in the tea, blood on his hands; the terror, the nightmares. His son, his daughter in law -his baby cousin- his daughter, his grandchildren, none of them could understand why after reading the paper, or listening to friends speak of Grindelwald, or later Voldemort, he would grow quiet, retreat to his study, have a drink, pace, think. None of them would understand, could understand; he didn't want them to understand, the horror of seeing a friends skull from the inside. He'd learned more of biology in those short months than he had ever before, more than he ever wanted to know; now here was another aspect of biology, so neatly linked to that lesson, grandfather Phineas would be proud.

Death comes in many forms.

Since he was a small child he'd watched death take many forms. From that of old age in the case of his grandmother Ursula, to that of sickness - his uncle Arcturus, to the inexplicable - his dear little brother Regulus. From the horror of the trenches, to heartbreak. The most trying for his soul however was that of Melania, a calm collected woman, their marriage was one of love though Arcturus knew not how she ever loved him, reclusive scholar that he was…. is. She had died not two days before her seventieth birthday and their fiftieth anniversary; and but one day different to the second anniversary of his sister's death. Orion had despaired, Arcturus and he had rarely seen eye to eye, he viewing his father with a certain amount of contempt over his passive view towards Muggles, the father disappointed in the son's disdain but in their grief for mother and wife they had been united.

Arcturus had retreated after his brother's untimely death, and had been brought out only by the combined efforts of Melania and his sister, Lycoris. The latter's death had resulted in a tailspin. Losing his little brother had been horrendous, no-one knew precisely what had happened but he could guess; a deal gone wrong. Regulus had been involved in the black markets. Lycoris however had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, an early Deatheater raid gone wrong and 'Coris had been hit with a killing curse. He'd made certain that her killer died an equally horrific death in Azkaban, he might not be his grandfather, nor his father but he was a Black and he knew how to pull strings like the best of them. His 'citizen's arrest' of his sister's killer, amongst other things, had culminated in his Order of Merlin. And then his son wondered why he had little liking for those of Voldemort's ilk.

His grandfather had bought the house in Grimmauld Place for Arcturus' father, a wedding present. It had enabled Sirius to gain some meaningful autonomy away from his father's iron will; a little autonomy at least. In the House of Black, a little autonomy is all that could be hoped for with Phineas Nigellus as your father. When his own father had died Arcturus had inherited it, and inherited it gladly. Even if it had needed a few things adding to it, the ability to be his own master tended to supersede most feelings of regret towards his and Sirius' terrible relationship.

A relationship that had never been helped by Sirius' own relationship with his father Phineas. Bringing this together with their rather differing views had made for a very trying family. That is not to say that neither party loved the other, no indeed this was not the case, but it is never easy to try and be master in your own home when you are not master of your own fate. Perhaps this is why he and Orion had differed in perspective so often. The fact that Arcturus knew his own health was failing had likely not helped. It was failing but had not failed, and still did not though he saw the Grim man knocking. Just as his house was failing but had not failed.

Children had come, once upon a time, pulling him from his misery. Two in fact, beautiful little boys with their father's good looks they'd knocked on his study doors day after day entreating him to play with them. Their grandmother was dead, the eldest said, but their grandfather was not and so he must play. It had worked, and though he had still mourned -did still mourn- Melania it was her grandchildren with her eyes that pulled him out of leaving with her. Never would they again. One lost to Azkaban another simply lost, leaving an old man with an old heart to mourn all over again.

Not that he had any intention to mourn for long, no matter if the Minister and his staff refused to touch the issue. He was Arcturus Black and he would see justice done, not the current despicable response. It was outrageous to think that any grandson of his could be placed in the same sentence as that, that, person who should not be named for the sheer abominableness that he dealt with all issues. Grindelwald it must be said had style, he had a sense of politics no matter how warped, that other man had no such things. He was no better than a terrorist, and he had heard often enough over the years of those sorts involved in Ireland. No, no grandson of his would be stupid enough to be involved in such things, and most assuredly not Sirius. The boy had more sense in his little finger than his mother had in her entire being. Not that he would state that too loudly of course. All the same he found the idea that Sirius was in Azkaban faintly preposterous. Who in their right mind would place the blame on him? Clearly the world had gone mad, indeed if he remembered rightly, they had. All big news stories with blaring headlines. His mother -daughter-in-law-cousin- had pretended not to even see the story, telling Kreacher that the paper was clearly going down in the world and that she wanted their subscription cancelled immediately. Thankfully there was more than one subscription in the household and so his own continued unabated, through the euphoria, the scandal, the apoplexy, the confusion.

And now it was happening all over again but with him at the centre.

Orion, the son that he had so often despaired of was dead. His youngest grandson, named for both himself and his beloved little brother, listed amongst the missing for these last few years, presumed dead. No father should outlive their children, or grandchildren. His eldest grandson, Sirius, named for his grandfather's father, had been 'removed' from the family tree by his own mother -daughter-in-law- in truth it meant little. Walburga could do as she liked to the tapestry, it wasn't her house, it was his house, it was not her Will that would decide who would inherit, and if he should decide that Sirius was suitable to inherit -whether the boy wished to or not- then so it would be.

Lucretia wanted him out of the house, an old man should not be living on his own with no more than a House-elf and daughter-in-law for company; she had not said this but Arcturus knew his daughter and he certainly knew how she thought. He was also well aware of her contempt for her sister-in-law-cousin.

Lying in Saint Mungo's he waited, they wouldn't let him leave not until Lucretia arrived. He hadn't wanted to tell her, he hadn't, and then he'd had a turn in Diagon Alley and now the entire Wizarding World knew. Arcturus Black might not be dying, but the family was stuttering its last few breaths through him, he knew, he could hear them. He'd been poked and prodded, told to drink and to swallow and to sleep and to tell them who to contact; he'd said Lucretia for the simple fact that he hadn't been thinking (fainting will do that to you) now he half wishes he'd said Walburga.

He hated hospitals, had spent too long in their Wards when he was a teenager, mostly in Muggle ones, with their overly clean smell mixed with death and their whiter than white looks hiding the blood. It's why when the headaches first started it was all Orion could do to call the mediwitch out for his father because he refused to go anywhere near St. Mungo's. People died in hospitals and besides it was just a headache after all.

Headaches that were blood clots. He'd never told the boys, refused to, they didn't need to know. Even if little Sirius did enforce the mediwitch's will for many years they had never told him what exactly was wrong with his grandfather. There was little St. Mungo's could do, he knew that. Orion had sworn until he was blue in the face that he would tell the hospital his father's entire medical history when Lucretia came in one day telling stories about what had happened during the Great Muggle War; the War to end all wars. Arcturus had threatened to hex him if he dared to tell the mediwitches anything. You can't fix problems that had a sixty year onset, he would say. Of course Arcturus also said that these 'turns' as he politely called them were nothing more than that, a moment of weakness. A moment of weakness that would leave him shuddering and shaking, wishing to stop his ears, but it was nothing more than shameful, that is what they had all called it when confronted with those who suffered back then. It was shameful and cowardly and they should all just become men, for men didn't run and hide, that was what they used to say, he'd said it himself. When the headaches had first started he couldn't now remember, he had just attributed them to his 'turns', and there was little St. Mungo's could do for them. After all what experience did they have with Muggle problems? The very fact that the place is called: St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries only reinforced the fact. No, he was quite right in his assumption, there was nothing they could do. No matter what Orion might think.

Fainting was new however, and not a good sign, he heard the Healers whisper in hushed tones: 'weak heart', 'aneurysm', blood pressure and other words including 'tests' that would no doubt have Lucretia and Walburga at each other's throats once more. He half wanted to tell them where they could put their tests, and it wasn't anywhere near him. He was however far too well mannered, and tired, to do so at the moment. He was not an invalid, although moving seemed beyond him at the moment, no doubt due to one of the vile concoctions he had been forced to ingest.

Oh look, one fairly irritated daughter, Healers on her tail. He wouldn't be coddled, he refused! Nor would he be treated as an invalid, he was not! Let them say what they would, he would not just lie down and accept it, not while he had breath left in his body. He would see the family rise again; he refused to inaugurate its destruction, to watch as the last members turned to dust. He would fix it, or die trying. Death comes in many forms, on swift wings and slow but he would not see death claim his house. Not while heirs still lived. He was Arcturus Black, son of Sirius Black, grandson of Phineas Nigellus Black, patriarch of the Black family and he'd just watched his world finally die in a heap in Diagon Alley.

But he would not go softly into that last, and final, good night.

 **End Notes:**

This story was written a number of years ago and dug out of the incomplete story folder on my computer and it's likely that I'll have a look at it again and make more edits to it.

Arcturus Black has been resident in my head for quite a long time. I used to rpg with the character online and I always found him a fascinating soul especially when we realise that Sirius is not actually a very reliable narrator when it comes to his family. He was wrong about Regulus so why should he not be wrong about Arcturus?

Arcturus was 90 when he died in 1991 the same year Harry Potter came to Hogwarts and yet from what we understand about Grimmauld place in Order of the Phoenix the house hadn't been lived in since the 80's when Walburga died, this story was an attempt to understand where the head of the Black family was living and why the house was so rundown and why in Sirius' recollections of his family it is his own parents who take centre stage when his grandfather would've been living there.

I decided that, certainly by the 90's, he had likely moved in with his daughter, and if I was to continue the story that is indeed what would have happened. Lucretia Prewett nee Black (Sirius' aunt) died in 1992 so neither she nor her father knew that Sirius was innocent. It should be pointed out that it's likely the Black family didn't believe in the charges since they knew Sirius' character intimately and they were also well acquainted with Voldemort's followers but the family would've been discredited with both he and Bellatrix's arrest and other members of the family being known sympathisers.

The story is written from Arcturus' point of view and it should be pointed out that he also is not a reliable narrator, he's absentminded and took too little interest in his family's lives before it was too late hence his own disbelief that any grandchild of his would've been involved in the mess.

The title is taken loosely from the poem: "Do not go gently into that good night" by Dylan Thomas.

" _Do not go gentle into that good night,_  
 _Old age should burn and rave at close of day;_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

 _Though wise men at their end know dark is right,_  
 _Because their words had forked no lightning they_  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._

 _Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_  
 _Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

 _Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_  
 _And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._

 _Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_  
 _Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

 _And you, my father, there on the sad height,_  
 _Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light."_

I have another Arcturus story on the hard drive (also staring the Marauders) that is very much unfinished that is an actual story and not just a monologue style but for some reason I have become obsessed with the price of Tube travel in the 70's...


End file.
